


Personal Masterpiece

by uglycherries6



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Slow Burn, Therapy, Trans Frank Iero, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglycherries6/pseuds/uglycherries6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So the question of how he felt about his body was more complex than a simple “good” or “bad” it was more of a work in progress, an unfinished painting that was just slightly too fucked up to show anyone quite yet."</p><p>Frank is seventeen, starting a new school, and ready to convince the world he's fine no matter how many times he wants to punch a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Frank wondered if therapy was bullshit. 

He was wondering this right now, tuning out some relatable life story his therapist was telling. He’d just got his Psychology textbook, and like any asshole intellectual he’d skimmed the pages for anything interesting, and there happened to be a whole section dedicated to the great therapy debate that apparently psychologists had been arguing about ever since Freud snorted some coke and declared himself king of psychology. 

Frank would like to think therapy worked, the routine had been ingrained in him since he was thirteen years old. Those weekly, or bi-weekly, meetings had become a key part of his life that he had a hard time viewing as purely obsolete. He’d been with his old therapist in San Francisco for four years, and she’d been more than helpful, a shoulder to lean on through all his hard times. But at the same time he kind of liked the idea of his own inner strength being the sole driving force that pulled him through depression and anxiety and dysphoria. It comforted him somehow, giving him self control over his life and actions. Maybe, just maybe he’d overcome his demons himself and all this therapy was purely coincidental. 

Either way Frank couldn’t really see himself quitting therapy any time soon, it had been the only constant thing in his life for years, a set time that he could count on where he could vent his feelings away for an hour. And whether or not it was bullshit, he liked that. 

The move from San Francisco meant a few things for Frank. 1. It seemed significantly less gay and 2. He had to get a new therapist. Number 2 really put a dent in his routine, altering that one constant in his life that had essentially helped him grow up. Not a lot of people stuck around for four years, and his old therapist almost felt like an old friend that he had to leave behind by the move. 

Sure, Martha, his new therapist, seemed fine. She talked with that nice soft voice that he was pretty sure therapists were taught to speak, and she had a bowl of candy in her room that Frank decided to help himself to. And the water pitcher was filled with nice cold water. There was nothing seemingly obvious that he should dislike her for. But he still felt alien in her room, the chair just not quite as comfy as the chair in San Francisco felt. 

Right now she was talking about her teenage years, and how she struggled with her body image. And Frank was 200% disinterested, he knew he didn’t like his body, and he knew he had to work on it. But it was just so much easier to ignore everything under three layers of flannel than to assess his problems and how last night he kept getting out of bed to look at himself in the mirror just so he could take in his reflection and make a concise list of everything good and bad about his body. 

The list more or less ended up being:

Pros:  
Small mustache  
Flat chest  
Shoulders seemed broad  
Masculine face, even if soft

Cons:

Chest was swollen  
Hips too big  
Too short, easily mistaken for a girl  
No beard  
Face too soft, even if masculine

So the question of how he felt about his body was more complex than a simple “good” or “bad” it was more of a work in progress, an unfinished painting that was just slightly too fucked up to show anyone quite yet. He was his own personal masterpiece and perfection took time, no artist ever felt content with their first draft. It was always try, and try again. What good was he really if he didn’t strive to be the best version of himself that he possibly could?

“Do you think you’ll ever feel fine with your body?” 

Frank looked up, he’d been fumbling with his thumbs throughout Martha’s whole story and slightly prolonged pause before she had questioned him. 

He made fleeting eye contact with her before quickly glancing away, at the sliver in the blinds through which he could see outside, “Like, I don’t know. That’s a bit of a loaded question.”

“Well you were just telling me about how before surgery, your chest bothered you. And now, after surgery, your chest bothers you.”

“Well yeah it’s been like two weeks it’s gonna look ugly as shit.”

“When do you think it won’t, as you say, look ugly as shit?” 

God Frank hated that stupid soft therapist voice, “When it looks good.” He offered plainly. 

She nodded tentatively in acceptance. 

Frank glanced at the clock, five more minutes. And that should mean three because they had to go out to talk to his mom and figure out a date when they’d meet again sometime next week. Probably the same time, routine was good, easy to keep track of. Martha held a small smile, Frank thought that besides the voice, they also taught that in therapy school. Faces always holding a small, empty smile to try and appear welcoming and at ease. Something to break the uneasy tension when a patient wasn’t cooperating. 

“Well Frank, I’m sorry that we don’t really offer anything specific here, for transgender people, like you had in San Francisco. If I’m being honest really, you’re the second trans patient I’ve ever treated.” 

“It’s cool” Frank offered numbly. He’d prepared himself for the loss of resources. Weekly trans meetings and trained professionals were around, but noticeably fewer and harder to come by. He’d just figured that he’d find new ways to cope, new people, new centers, the community always seemed to thrive and exist no matter where you went, even if it was harder to come by. 

Martha stood up, walking over to her desk. Frank watched as she went through some papers before taking out a pamphlet. “We do have a group for teens who struggle with body image though. Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, all that. It might not really be a fit but, if you ever feel like trying it out you could.” 

Needless to say Frank was still disinterested, but he accepted the pamphlet when she handed it over to him. It had a picture of three smiling teens on it and in all caps declared “TEEN BODY IMAGE GROUP”. He hardly doubted these teens would be smiling if they were talking about how much they hated their body surrounded by other people who, coincidentally, also happened to hate their body. What a fun time that must be. 

“I’ll think about it I guess.” He mumbled, getting out of the chair. 

Martha did that soft therapist smile again, she picked up her planner and flipped through the pages, “Well I have an opening next week, same time. Do you think that’d work?”

“Yeah that sounds good” Frank looked at the small mirror that stood on the shelf across the room, staring at his reflection. He made a mental note that his hair was getting a bit long, he’d have to ask his mom to cut it when she had the time, he didn’t feel like getting called “Miss” in the store just because he made the mistake of growing his hair out too long. He’d be beating himself up for weeks if he let that happen. 

“Okay, let’s go make sure that’s okay with your mom.” Martha said, leading Frank out the door after Frank had one last chance to check his appearance.

The hallways were quiet and Frank was happy to stay silent as they walked past the pristine white walls. The waiting room had a few younger kids playing around, Frank ignored them as he watched the TV in the corner show some rerun he didn’t remember of a Dora episode. Both he and his mom quickly said goodbye to his new therapist and made their way out to the car once next week's date was settled and Martha wrote down Frank’s name in neat little handwriting in her planner.

Their house still didn’t have a lot of stuff. Part of moving across the country is you can’t take all your junk with you. So for the first time in his life Frank had a relatively clean room, except for the hoodie that he’d tossed on the floor last night because putting it on a hanger just felt like too much effort. Really all he had right now was a bed, a set of drawers, and a desk that was really just a fold-up table in disguise. If he got a plant or two he might just be able to pull off a nice minimalist look. 

Sometime later his mom walked into his room, she had always looked stressed, but the recent move really seemed to do a number on her. The bags under her eyes seemed more prominent than ever, and Frank who was a well known insomniac, now found his late night time shared by the sounds of netflix coming from across the hall when it was usually dead quiet. 

They had a good relationship, as far as mother and son went. A mutual understanding of each other that often just contained silence. With his old therapist Frank once came to the conclusion that they were too scared to lose each other in a fight, so they avoided them at all costs. A somewhat force of events for them to get along even when they didn’t want to, because without each other they didn’t really have many options. 

He knew that she worried about him. And he worried about her too. He respected her worries about his life as long as she didn’t pry. And she respected his worries about her life as long as he didn’t butt his head in where it didn’t belong. 

“You need anything? I think I’m gonna head to bed soon” She asked. That was a lie. They’d both be up for hours and they both knew it. 

“Naw I’m cool.”

She stood in his doorways for a bit, maybe searching for words to say, maybe adjusting herself still to her new surroundings. She’d become harder to read lately, a previously open book that had been shut close, Frank didn’t really know if he liked that change yet. Her eyes gazed blankly around the room, “I know this move isn’t easy for you… but it’ll be good, your new school has a great music program and Martha seems nice. And that group she told you about, you made friends in your last group, maybe it could be the same here.” 

Her forced optimism fell flat in the silence of the air..

He nodded in silence, not wholly agreeing nor disagreeing with her. Apathy had pretty much consumed Frank since the move, not caring about anything either way was much easier than caring about anything entirely too much. Probably not the best way to deal with change, but it was a pseudo calmness that kept his head steady, a calmness which probably both he and his mom needed right now. 

“Yeah, it’s cool mom.”

His phone buzzed beside him in his bed, and his mom slowly peeled herself from his room, sensing that the mixture of disinterest and forced socialization had run its short life. Sometimes Frank felt like she existed more as a shadow than a person, weaving in and out of existence when she pleased, only to return to the background as others passed her by.

Frank picked up his phone, already knowing who it was, he only really had one good friend who he knew he’d be keeping in touch with from California, 

James [11:22pm] : yo man whats up

Frank [11:22pm] : mom was being emo abt the move again wbu

James [11:23pm] : im being emo about.. missing you bro

Frank rolled his head back into his pillow, it was hard to remain indifferent about life when he kept getting daunting reminders about how he was thousands of miles away from everything that was familiar to him. He still wasn’t really ready to process that James, who had been such a prominent figure in his life, was now reduced to just words on a screen. 

James [11:24pm] : anyways how are your nips

…

… 

James [11:24pm] : haha no nip frank 

Frank [11:24pm] : i still have my nips asshole! they hurt tho .. pray for them

James [11:24pm] : thats what happens when you take your nips off and sew them back on loser

Frank [11:25pm] : fuck u im gonna make fun of u when its ur turn

James [11:25pm] : false im getting keyhole motherfucker!!! my nips are safe!

Frank [11:25pm] : fuck u 

James [11:25pm] : love you too man


	2. Chapter 2

One of the side effects of insomnia being mixed with school anxiety was making an impromptu decision to shave all your hair off at five in the morning. 

The other side effect of this unfortunate mix was having your mother fix your various mistakes an hour later because watching a five minute youtube video titled “how to shave your own head (easy!)” didn’t exactly turn out pretty. 

Buzzed hair didn’t exactly look bad on Frank. It was just that it only ever happened in a spur of frantic dysphoria, every few months or so he’d sit for hours running his hands through his hair until the anxiety forced him to cave in. It was almost always followed by immediate regret, and then almost always followed by a few weeks of wearing beanies nonstop. 

As he got ready for his second day of school, layering on a shirt, a flannel, and a jean jacket, his eyes drifted back over to his dresser. He’d forgotten to throw away that pamphlet his therapist had given him the day before. It wasn’t like he’d even considered going, he didn’t want to go sit in a room full of strangers and discuss what parts of his body he hated. Besides, not liking your body was natural at this point, self love was faked behind angled selfies and filters, forced positivity masquerading as genuine love, everyone knew that. It was why diet companies continued to grow in popularity and magazines flew off the shelves. As far as Frank was concerned, he wasn’t any different than anyone else, he just had the decency to be blunt about his relationship with his body.

And sure he’d never go up and admit that he hated his body to anyone who wasn’t his therapist or his mom or James. But some things were just private and didn’t need to be said to the world. If someone asked, he’d be truthful, but people rarely did ask you if you hated your body, because again, some things are just private. 

Frank was fine, no worse off than the rest of the population as far as he was concerned. 

Before he left for school he made sure to toss the pamphlet in the trash. 

Despite what people claimed, high school was vastly different depending on where you went. So understandably Frank possessed some anxiety about the entire situation. He’d already gotten his first day over and done with before he had seen Martha, but the second day didn’t seem to ease anything. By all means it just made things worse, he was even more tired than before, trying to sort out classes, a new social structure, and a whole new campus was exhausting. 

The main difference Frank could see this year, was that no one would know he was trans. Sure, there were kids in his last school that didn’t know. But he’d still gone through almost half of his high school career in the closet, any and all information about his transgender status could easily be acquired by just asking around or opening last years yearbook. But here Frank entirely held the power in his hands, to disclose, to not disclose, and he had no idea what to do about that just quite yet. 

He eyed the skater kids he’d noticed from the day before, kids dressed in black looking like they’d all just come from a late night punk show. Messy hair and bad dye jobs, piercings covering their faces. He paid a bit too much attention to the guys leaning against the railing in their tight shirts, both admiring the aesthetics of it all while subconsciously comparing their bodies to his own. The thin hips and lanky teen body that seemed to come so naturally to them, Frank often wondered if they even gave it a second thought, blessed to be born with what he had been trying for years to obtain. 

Other than the wave of new people and faces, Frank seemed to be enjoying his classes so far. They all seemed at least slightly interesting, even if he didn’t really have anyone to talk to in them yet. 

Psychology and band seemed to peak his interest the most so far. Psychology just because it was a nice fresh breath away from the typical math and english fiasco that that been shoved down his throat for years, and band because music was something that to be quite honest, he loved. They didn’t have any spot for guitar players but he was able to play drums which, even if not ideal, still helped him immerse himself in the music. 

In music class, Frank sat next to Evan. Like Frank he wore a flannel that seemed just slightly too big, his face obscured by glasses and a snapback. He was one of the few kids that had the privilege of playing guitar in class, a spot reserved for only the best of seniors at the school who had proved themselves over the years. 

Evan was quiet, hard to read, but he’d been quick to reach out to Frank from day one. Said that he’d transferred in during his sophomore year and knew it sucked not having anyone to hang around with for the first few weeks. Plus, he appreciated the fact that Frank was into the same music as he was, going off on how the school needed more musicians because he wanted to start an actual band. He’d called Frank dude right off the bat, which by now Frank should’ve been used to, but still felt a glimmer of pride, a sense of acceptance from his fellow male peers that he was desperate to obtain. 

Frank went over to his seat, “Hey man.” 

Evan barely looked up, “Sup dude” A silence settled in as Evan tuned his guitar, he spoke again, “I’m fucking pissed dude, we have to work with the choir kids for the next show.”

“What’s wrong with the choir kids?”

“They’re a bunch of stuck up brats, think they’re better than us. Like we get it, you sing, who cares.”

“Oh…” 

Frank didn’t really know what to say, but it didn’t seem to matter as Evan jumped right back into his rant, “And Way’s the worst of them, Gerard, he’s like the lead choir dude. He’s weird as hell, obsessed with like death and vampires and shit. Back in like ninth grade he even tried to dress like one, like that’s some weird ass shit right there.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’d wear like vests and suits, and his hair was long and black. Pretty sure he was wearing foundation five shades too light too.”

“Yeah that’s kind of weird,” Frank said absentmindedly, “Takes some guts to be a full on goth though.”

“Yeah that’s true. You’re kinda like a half-assed emo I guess. Skinny jeans but not the eyeliner, I respect that.”

Frank was about to open his mouth, make a joke about the racoon eyes he rocked all of middle school, but stopped as soon as he remembered what he actually looked like back then. There wasn’t any way he’d want to think about that time, much less bring it up to someone else. It seemed too personal somehow, even giving away vague information seemed like just a step away from confessing his whole life story. 

His past, as far as he was concerned, was irrelevant. 

He was Frank Iero, the dude from San Francisco, who lived with his mom, liked punk music, and sometimes wore too many layers. That’s all that needed to be known. The west coast was thousands of miles away, and anything he did, any impact he made on the world while he lived there, meant nothing now. His past was thousands of miles away, and slowly, quietly, he was recreating the image of the man he always knew he was. Skipping details of a story, shedding painful relationships, he was regaining the control that was stripped away from the day he was born. The whispers of a life he never wanted would haunt him no more.

During lunch that day, Frank sat by Evan and his friends. They mostly joked with each other, being loud, rambunctious. Frank kept by Evan, staying quiet, not really sure yet how he fit into the dynamic of the group. It seemed relatively similar to who he’d hang out with back home, even down to the guy who seemed to carry a guitar everywhere even though there was no discernable use for it. 

Evan nudged him, “See the dude over there? Chubby, looks like he cuts his hair himself? That’s Gerard.”

Frank looked up, he didn’t know what he expected, but from Evan’s distasteful words earlier he seemed to be expecting some dude in a bow tie with slicked back hair. Instead he was met by someone who looked, abnormally normal, if such a thing was possible. 

His hair, yes, seemed like it was a few weeks into growing out from a bad haircut. But other than that he just wore a black hoodie and jeans. Nothing flashy, nothing that brought any attention, if Evan hadn’t pointed him out, he probably would’ve faded into the crowd. Unknown, just another spec in the sea of people. 

Frank didn’t really know what to say. He used to a strict preacher of accepting everyone, probably due to some misfortunes with bullying in his early high school years. But he was half way through reinventing himself now. A split between who he wanted to be, and who he used to be. 

He shrugged, keeping his face neutral, “Yeah he looks kinda weird.”

“Fuck, shit, he’s coming over here.”

He looked back up just in time to see Gerard coming towards them, now just a few feet away. The mood at the table was already starting to change, apparently Evan wasn’t the only one who had a certain dislike for the guy. Most of the people around Frank were also looking at Gerard, and their faces didn’t exactly look welcoming. 

Gerard stopped in front of the table and looked at Evan, “Hey Nestor, Mackenzie said I need to get your number so we can organize practice for the show.”

“Yeah sure” Evan pulled out his phone. 

Some people giggled in the back. Gerard glared at them. Frank wasn’t sure what to do besides sit in silence and wait for the interaction to pass. 

“Fuck man, something stinks.” One of the guys at the table said, a bit too loud. Some people nearby turned their heads to see what the fuss was about. 

“Yo Way, when’s the last time you took a shower man?” Another said. 

A few of the girls across from Frank tried their best to look disgusted. One even covered her nose with the sleeves of her sweater. Seemed like a bit of an overkill if you asked Frank. But he was in no position to question the social hierarchy of the group yet, especially not after they’d so generously taken him in.

If Gerard was affected by words he sure wasn’t showing it, his face was blank as he watched Evan scribble down his number in what looked to be barely legible handwriting, “New number” he mumbled, as he quickly double checked to make sure everything matched up. 

Gerard grabbed the paper, stuffing it in his pocket, “Thanks”. Before he left he locked eyes with the rest of the group and held up his middle finger. Frank couldn’t tell if it was brave or just pathetic, but it was all over and done with before he could come to any sort of conclusion. 

“Damn, you guys really don’t like that guy” He muttered, taking a bite of his sandwich. 

“He’s weird as hell.” 

“I really don’t think he’s ever showered in his life.” The girl who covered up her nose added. 

“Remember that time he came to school drunk and like pissed on the bathroom floor, now that was fucking wild.” 

Frank glanced over at Evan, he just shrugged, “The dude shoved Alex into a trashcan last year. Can’t really feel pity for him, he’s got it coming.”

“Okay, yeah that’s shitty” Frank agreed, feeling a bit better that there seemed to somewhat of an actual reasoning behind the rampant dislike for Gerard.

The conversation began to shift as people began to argue what the most iconic old school metal band was. Frank let himself relax a bit more, even letting himself join in the conversation, he could feel his barriers start to fall down as he settled into his new place in the world. These would be his new friends, he could already picture it. They’d play bad music in their garages, go to concerts, get high, talk shit about people they didn’t like. They’d be reckless teens ready to take on the world. 

For once, Frank felt okay. He wasn’t the weird outcast anymore. He wasn’t lurking in the shadows. No one was calling him names. Maybe this was who he was going to be now, the rambunctious punk guy who whose group of friends were loud and didn’t take shit from anyone. Shy, timid, too scared to talk Frank was dead and buried on the shores of San Francisco. New Jersey Frank was coming alive with ease, he’d work through his problems, slowly chip away at his insecurities, brush over his flaws, build himself up bigger and better than ever before. He’d become the person he’d always wanted to be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got misgendered in hot topic lads
> 
> tw for misgendering

It happened when Frank was shopping for a new pair of shoes with his mom. 

It hadn’t happened in months. 

He was quiet the whole ride home, retreating into himself, his body turning into a hollow shell.

Can I help you ladies?

Can I help you ladies?

Can I help you ladies?

The clerks overly cheerful voice rang in his ears. Filling his brain. He couldn’t think about anything else. 

He stared at the mirror in his room. Examining his reflection, picking out any flaw, and obvious trait, that led to being misgendered. Suddenly everything looked wrong. His hips too big, sticking out jarringly. His shoulders too small, a long long ways from being anywhere near broad and manly. His face was too round, too feminine. And this wasn’t even getting into his height, barely 5’4” with shoes. It was a miracle he’d even been able to pass at all. Over a year of testosterone, top surgery, and all he had was this disgusting mess of a body to show for it. 

He pulled off his shirt, undoing the clasps of his compression vest which seemed far too tight, it’s raspy, sweaty material sticking to his skin. He pulled it off, staring at his bare chest in the mirror. The scars were raised, red and bumpy, sticking out like sores. The swelling was uneven, making his chest lumpy, a field of rolling hills laid out across his body. The compression vest had been making his testosterone driven acne a million times worse than he could have even imagined. There was nothing salvageable here, nothing he could find some shred of positivity in, nothing at all. 

He wanted to punch something, someone, anything to drive his anger away. Anything to return control back to his body. He thought he took control when he started taking testosterone. He thought he took control when he legally changed his name and gender. He thought he took control when he begged his mom to let a surgeon cut open his chest and finally make everything right. 

But control was a fucking lie. He still couldn’t stand the sight of his body, couldn’t stand the sound of his own voice, couldn’t go out in public without wanting to die. 

Control was fucking fake. There was no point to any of it. 

His mom knocked on the door and he quickly grabbed a stray hoodie off the floor, and threw it over his head, not wanting her to see his mess of a body. 

She walked in, her quiet, careful, demeanor, somehow managed to change the atmosphere of a room without even needing to say anything. Frank felt guilty, somehow, he didn’t want her to see him like this, to see him at his worst. Not when she had been the sole driving force behind his transition, approving things he knew other parents wouldn’t have even considered. He wanted to be the picture perfect trans child for her, the ones that reminisced back on their old life and said with a joyful smile, “Wow! I’m so much happier now!” But Frank was still sad, still uncomfortable in his own skin, there was no happy ending to his story. 

“Frank, are you okay?” Her soft voice filled the room.

“I’m fine, mom.” He wondered if his voice sounded forced. Could she sense the effort he was putting into each and every syllable, desperate to keep his voice calm and steady?

“Are you sure? I know that… these things can affect you…”

“Mom. I’m fine. I don’t care, honestly.” 

“I took out the trash the other day and noticed that you threw away that pamphlet that Martha gave you.” She stepped further into the room, making it clear that she was going to have a conversation with Frank about all of this, he had no way out. 

Frank sat on his bed, looking at his phone to show a disinterest in the conversation, “Yeah, cause it was stupid.”

She sighed, “You liked your old group. I think they really helped you.”

“Yeah, mom, that was a trans group. Y’know, for trans people. This is just like, some body acceptance group, where they’re probably going to make us stand in front of a mirror and say something about how we’re all beautiful.”

“It could help.”

“Doubt it.” Frank shot back. 

Frank watched as she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she gently rubbed her face. Wrinkles were beginning to line her face, from age, from stress, from dealing with a stubborn teenage boy. “Can you at least, think about it? Maybe?” Her voice was tired. Frank often wondered if she was ever just as exhausted as he was from his constant moodiness. 

“When is it?” He was already texting James about it, hoping to get an opinion from someone who wasn’t his overly concerned mother. 

“If you read the pamphlet you’d know that they meet every Wednesday. So you can go tomorrow if you want to try it out.” 

“Ugh, that’s not enough time to decide Frank whined. 

His phone buzzed. 

James [6:34pm] : dude you should go what if they have free food

Frank sighed.

James [6:34pm] : also if it sucks just dont go again

“Fine” Frank said, but he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, “But if I hate it I’m not going again.”

His mom seemed perfectly content with that answer and left the room to go and make dinner. 

Frank sighed. Had he really reached such a low where he was letting himself go to some body image group, they’d probably make him do yoga or draw a food pyramid. None of it would help, he already knew that. It would be easier for everyone to just accept that he was a lost cause. That his self hatred wasn’t something that needed to be fixed, just something he had to work around. It was permanent, a part of his life. Everything that could already be done had been done, his body sucked, he sucked, everything sucked. Those were just the facts. 

If Frank was a painting, then he was a bad one, and he could draw over the misshapen lines as many times as he wanted, try to erase the mistakes plastered for everyone to see. But it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. 

If he was a painting, then he was far beyond repair. 

Wednesday came sooner than expected and almost immediately was off to a bad start. Before he left for school, Frank forced himself to turn his mirror around, hiding his reflection. He knew it wouldn’t last long, he’d probably flip it back over when he came home from school. But it was the only way to make sure he wouldn’t be late for school, every minute he was finding himself back in front of it, obsessively checking for any flaw he could find. 

At school he kept zoning out, he kept fumbling over his parts in band, causing Evan to give him a few sympathetic glances now and then. He hated how just one misstep could ruin him, he could still hear that stupid clerk’s voice in his head and it was making him more self conscious than ever. It was supposed to be hot, summer’s reminder that it was still very much here, but Frank had covered himself up in a thick hoodie and baggy pants. Obscuring the shape of his body as best he could.

It was a lot harder to misgender someone if they had no visible body. No marker to judge. Nothing. It was days like these were Frank wished he could collapse inwards on himself until just a shadow remained. 

Lunch came and Frank sat again with Evan’s crew. He was still figuring out his place but felt a bit better, over the past few days he’d felt more accepted and included among them. He was still adjusting to the fact that none of them knew. The paranoia inside his brain mocked him for even believing the notion that he could pass. But none of them seemed to question his gender, no one had mentioned it, no one had misgendered him. 

It was directly challenging every belief his paranoia had installed in him: that he didn’t pass, that no one would ever see him as a man. Part of him was still waiting for one of them to slip up, to misgender him, to call him his old name. Waiting for them to tell him that this was all some elaborate prank, hell, the idea that he could pass was laughable at best. They were just playing along for his benefit, to make him feel better about himself only to later tear him down. 

The rational side of Frank knew that this was ridiculous. But anxiety didn’t listen to facts or reason. 

“Guys!” Matt, one of Evan’s friends, was running over to them at a frantic pace, catching everyone’s attention, “Yo, Way and Alex just fucking went at each other man. Like Way punched him, and then Alex tackled him. It was sick.”

“What the hell, what happened?” Evan asked. 

“Dunno. It was stupid, Alex made fun of Way’s nerd club, and then Way made fun of Alex cause his girlfriend dumped him and then got together with Ryan like the next day” Matt was catching his breath, he’d probably run all the way across campus just to deliver this news, “Anyways they’re both with the principal right now.”

“What’s gonna happen to them?”

“Probably suspension. Maybe just Saturday school though. Way’s the choir’s golden boy so they might not want him to miss school.” Matt shrugged, grabbing some of Evan’s fries before sitting down with the rest of them. 

“Who punched first?” Frank asked, joining the conversation. 

“Way did. I think Alex told him to go suck Morrissey's dick or something like that. And then something about jumping off a bridge. After that Way kinda lost it and decked him right in the jaw.”

“Can Alex even tackle Way? No offense but like, Way’s a bit… bigger than Alex is.” Sara, Matt’s girlfriend, asked. 

“Alex is on the wrestling team.” Evan said, as if it was obvious. 

Sara rolled her eyes, “I can’t believe he punched Alex. I thought he was over that shit after he got suspended for the piss on the floor thing last year.” 

Frank was trying his best to follow along with the conversation, but it was hard when he’d just gotten here. References to prior years were largely lost on him, all he had was the here and now to make judgement on. 

Evan shrugged, “People don’t change I guess.” It got quiet again, most people were halfway through eating their food, making the most of the thirty minute lunch period. Evan turned to Frank, “Hey, me and a couple dudes are trying to get a band going. You play guitar right?”

Frank perked up, “Yeah dude.”

“Are you free today? It’ll be my place, I’ll order pizza.” 

Frank tried not to let the disappointed expression on his face show. After what happened yesterday his mom would kill him if he didn’t keep his word and go to therapy. Especially since there was a chance that she might see the mirror he’d turned around. It wasn’t worth the hours long lecture and disappointed glares he’d get from her. 

“Er, sorry I have some shit to do today with my mom. Y’know… we’re still unpacking and getting stuff sorted out.” He mumbled half-heartedly. 

“It’s cool, I get it. It was last minute anyways.”

But Frank still couldn’t help but feel guilty. If he had his shit together he’d be free, there’d be no conflict. But no, he just had to be so pathetic that his mom thought he needed therapy. Not just once a week, but extra therapy, because those sessions with Martha clearly weren’t going to be enough to fix whatever damage there was in his brain. 

Dysphoria was dictating his life. The clothes he wore. The hair he had. When he hung out with his friends. He couldn’t escape it. 

Control was fake and Frank Iero knew it all too well.   
He barely had time to eat after school before his mom was driving him over to therapy. He could already picture the hour and a half he’d spend staring at the clock. There was no point to this. But he’d promised his mom so he had to go through with it. 

“Frank, I want you to go into this with a positive mind. You might be surprised.” Her voice was edging dangerously close to the soft therapist voice he hated. 

Frank stared out the car window, “I’m already going, I really don’t know what else you want from me. 

His mom sighed, “I’m serious Frank. Okay. I really-- I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m literally fine.”

“You turned your mirror around again.” She shot back. 

Fuck. He’d forgotten to turn that back around before she could see it. She’d cornered him now, he had no viable excuse, no way to convince her that he really was doing okay. The cards were stacked against him and it was his own fault. 

He could already see the plain, white building in the distance, familiar from his last visit with Martha. 

“I’m just having a weird week. I’ll get over it.” He mumbled, voice numb, he just wanted to drop the topic and get this all over with. 

The waiting room was bland. At least something managed to stay the same, no matter where you were waiting rooms always had the same strange atmosphere. Small children trying to be controlled by their stressed out parents, silent sulking teenages, a pile of magazines that no one ever read. 

Frank looked around the room, trying to pick out who else would be in the group with him. He spotted two girls about his age, chatting quietly in the corner. He’d put his money on them for sure. People going to groups sometimes would socialize beforehand, he knew that from experience. Everyone else was a flat out no, or a maybe. It’s not like people walked around with signs waving above their head that said: “Hey! I have serious body image issues and cry myself to sleep every night!”

A few minutes passed and a lady who looked like a younger version of Martha walked out the door, “Teen group?” She called out. How nice of her to keep it vague, saving them all the awkwardness of letting the entire waiting room know of their insecurities. 

Just as he’d guessed, the two chatty girls in the corner stood up. Frank watched as another girl with dark black hair got up to join them, and then another one followed suit. 

He stood up, lagging behind them, as if somehow that’d bring less attention to himself. The younger Martha clone smiled at him as he walked through the door, keeping his hands in his pockets and his head down. 

They all sat in a circle. Frank learned that the Martha clone was named Cindy. She had large, cat-eye glasses, and a simple cream dress. She, like Martha held an eerily calm demeanor. And if she thought for one second that she was going to make some miraculous breakthrough with Frank, that she’d get him to confess his sorrows, she was dead wrong. 

He was determined to say as little as he could, reveal as little as possible. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He didn’t belong here. 

They went around with introductions. Chatty girls were Hayley and Laura, black hair girl was Lindsey, and the other one was Jane. They stared at him expectantly as he drawled out his name, his school, his age. Useless facts that added up to nothing in the long run but somehow was supposed to make them feel closer to each other. 

Laura began to ramble on about how she went shopping the other day, the pain and sorrow accompanied by the manufactured clothing sizes that dictated how she felt about her body. Frank stared at his feet, half listening, half in his own head. He couldn’t relate to this. He wasn’t supposed to be here. 

The door opened and everyone’s heads turned expectantly. 

Frank turned around, looking at who had just joined their sad little group. And fuck, as if this already wasn’t awkward enough. 

Standing there, in a baggy black hoodie, ripped jeans, and a cut lip. Was Gerard Way.


End file.
